Saturday Night
by cupid-painted-blind
Summary: The truth is, by the way, that I care about a lot of things, just not you. [Sirius irons a few things out with Regulus. Sort of. One shot.]


saturday night  
(there was something i forgot to say)

I always hated you, you know. From the moment you were born, I hated you. You were disgusting, really, all blotchy and red and wrinkled and I wondered why everyone always says that babies are beautiful, because, kid, you were _ugly._ Hideous, even. Sure, Narcissa cooed over you, but only because she knew Mum would like that. Bella didn't give a damn, and Andromeda had that same sort of half-smile, half-grimace on her face that I did, only I think hers was from having just watched a bitchy middle-aged woman go through labor. At any rate, I hated you from the start.

...That's a bit of a lie, though, if I'm honest. I mean, I never particularly liked you - you've always been a completely naive moron, always swallowing what they throw you - but I can think of a few people I disliked more than you. Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape, that creepy old guy who used to hit on Narcissa when she was about seven, to name a few.

(Okay, actually, that horny old guy was pretty fucking hilarious, if only because he honestly thought Narcissa would deign to touch him. Interesting fact: She was more disgusted at the possibility of an aged Muggle touching her than at the possibility of being molested by a cadaver. At seven. Funny what the family teaches you, huh?)

But just because I hated other people more doesn't mean I loved you. And for that...

Dammit, Regulus. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I couldn't find it in me to give a rat's ass what happened to you, and I'm sorry I wasn't the big brother you needed. I'm sorry I hated you, but I'm not going to lie - not now - and say _of course I loved you, I was your brother, wasn't I?_

What good would that do? I hated you, you admired me, I crushed your dreams. End of story. It sucks, yeah, I know. It's my fault you got so caught up in all that Death Eater shit, yes. If I'd been half the brother you wanted me to be, maybe you would have been a little smarter. Good deal. I'm sorry, but I can't change it, and nothing I do now will make my feelings for you change.

Sorry. I'm a heartless bastard, right? That's what you want to think of me. That's what they all tell you. So believe it. It's true. I care about myself, and maybe - possibly! - somewhere buried _really really deep_ within the ice of my heart, I care about my friends. If they're lucky. Like James, or Remus. A little bit. Kind of.

That's the truth, right? If it makes you feel better, then by all means, call me a sadistic asshole. Don't worry about the truth.

(The truth is, by the way, that I care about a lot of things, just not you. Sucks, doesn't it? Now you feel the same way I did when our _dear_ mother kicked me out. Get used to it.)

Anyway, back to the day you were born. Incidentally, St. Mungo's operates on the "Fourteenth Century Childbirth Edict" which means they don't actually have a Labor and Delivery Ward, assuming that _of course_ any witch (or, in certain strange cases, wizard) having a child would have a whole plethora of midwives at their disposal and have no need of anything so mundane as a hospital bed or drugs. Or anything other than their panicking two-year-old, completely indifferent husband, and massive number of annoying family members.

Fun fact: Women are amazing. If I had to give birth, someone would _die._ Most likely the baby. Because, _fuck _no. I was two, and I've never forgotten the day you were born.

Naturally, our family being who they are, we _did_ have a plethora of midwives at our disposal, so Mother Dearest got only the best.

(According to Bellatrix, when I was born, she stood in the backyard and shrieked until the neighbors swore that somewhere between their houses, a tiger was being brutally tortured. I sincerely hope she's lying, but at the same time, it is kind of cool to think that I might have been brought into this world by a screeching harpy. Oh, _wait._)

Whatever. Point is, you were born on Mother and Father's bed. And I had to clean the blood off the sheets later, with the incredibly unwilling help of our cousins. Can you say scarred for life? I'm cleaning blood that just came out of my mother's -

Yeah.

You were born and you were the most god-awfully hideous thing I'd ever seen (and stayed that way for a little over nine years, at which point I met Severus Snape), and Mother couldn't shut up about you. She was forever showing me my lovely baby brother and all this creepy cooing shit that I never expected to come out of _her_ mouth.

To this day, I think I might have been hallucinating. I'd just suffered a traumatizing experience with the sheets, remember?

I don't get it, Regulus. I really don't. What did you have that I didn't?

Why did Mother dote on _you?_

Fuck it. It doesn't matter anymore. I still remember your fifth birthday, because I remember how half the bleeding universe crammed into the house and made you this huge fucking cake, so big you could have stood on the table and hid behind it, and nearly set the goddamn house on fire with the candles - weren't there supposed to be five? Wasn't that how old you were? Why did you get eighteen thousand?

Anyway. You got this toy broomstick, a piece of shit really, especially compared to the real broomstick I had sitting comfortably up in my room that I threatened to beat you with if you tried to touch. It wouldn't go fast, but you were _overjoyed._ Like you'd just been handed the key to the fucking world on a golden platter, just for your personal use. And I remember thinking, it's just a _toy_. And not even a really good toy, at that. A fake broomstick. Hell, I could have ridden a normal broom (you know, the type you sweep with) better than that thing.

But it was such a big deal to you because now you were on your way to being just like your older brother.

I hated you then. I hated you and your fucking _toy_ because your fake little splinter made you fifty times happier than my real thing. I hated everything about you, from your shoes to the icing all over your face.

And everyone loved you. They thought you were the best thing, because you were so happy and so _cute _and of course, who wouldn't love adorable little Regulus Arcturus Black? Who wouldn't love you? How could anyone ever tell such a happy, sweet child no?

How?

Because you got everything. Even when I got things you didn't, even when I was the one who got the better toy or the more expensive robes, you were happier. You swallowed their drivel and _liked_ it. You never thought anything bad about the world, not even when the world threw itself back at you, and I hated you for it. For your idiotic naivete. For taking what they gave you and for being the one they liked more. Because happy Regulus never rebelled like his awful older brother.

...Narcissa told me, the last time I saw her, that you always admired me, and I hate you for that too.

You were supposed to be just like the rest of them, don't you_ get_ it? You were supposed to think I was awful, just like they did. You were supposed to criticize me and loathe me and laugh at me.

And no matter what I did, no matter how many times I hurt your feelings or ground you into the dust, no matter how many times I told you to your fucking _face _how much you pissed me off, you admired me. What the hell did you find admirable? I hated you. I lied to you. I cheated you out of anything I could when we were kids. I robbed you of the older brother you should have had because nothing you did was enough.

There. I said it. You weren't good enough. You still aren't. Sorry, Regulus, but I don't forgive you for being an idiot and listening to them. Even though it's my fault, because I never wanted you around. I let you go to them, and for that -

I'm not sorry. I don't care. I always hated you, from the moment you were born and I had to clean your birthing blood off the sheets, I hated you. And you still admired me.

Why? Why did you think I deserved your undying affection? Kid, I'm not a saint. I've never been one. I can be just as bad as they say I am. I can be a complete dick and a reckless fool. I don't think about the welfare of others very often. And I hate you because you were so damn happy with them that it made me sick.

I hated you then. And now you're dead, and they say you died at the hands of your fellow Death Eaters, which means one of two things. Either you freaked out and tried to leave them behind, or you rebelled, just like your dear older brother did. Call it a gut feeling, but I think it's the latter.

_Fuck_, Regulus. Of all the times to emulate me, you had to go and pick the one time that would get you killed? And you had to bite the dust before I could tell you just how much I hated you?

You're dead, and you'll never know that I always wanted to bash your stupid grinning face in. You're dead, and I'll never be able to tell you that I always thought you were a fool. You'll never be able to accept the fact that the object of your admiration was a bastard who didn't give a shit what happened to you.

(That's a lie, if I'm honest. If I'm honest, I could come up with a few damn good reasons why I'm here right now, glaring into my sixth empty mug. But I'm never honest.)  
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(A/N: Because Angry, Drunk Sirius-Rambling was too good to pass up. Title and quote are from the song Saturday Night, by the Misfits.

And oh, you don't honestly _believe _Sirius, do you?)


End file.
